


Raiders of the Lost ARC

by Prochytes



Category: Primeval, Sherlock (TV), Torchwood
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prochytes/pseuds/Prochytes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How a king won back his kingdom, with two temps, one techie, and a package.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raiders of the Lost ARC

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Primeval to 4x01, Sherlock to 2x03 “The Reichenbach Fall”, and Torchwood to the end of S4. For the purposes of this fic, S4 and subsequent seasons of Primeval happen in the near future. Thanks to arachnekallisti for some valuable suggestions.

 

1\. Friday in the Park with Guns and Smarties.

 

 

In the years that followed, Jess Parker had ample opportunity to reflect upon the circumstances of her first encounter with James Lester. (The real first encounter, that is – the one that never made it into any file.) Work with the anomalies would lead anyone to ponder the moments that might have changed a world: the road not taken; the door we never opened. Scarcely a subsequent day went by when she did not wonder. What would Jess Parker have become, if she had not been eating her packed lunch at that particular hour in that particular park, while a man and a woman on the bench opposite talked about Smarties?

 

The pair on the bench sat close together, in a way that looked companionable, but not coupley. The man was short, with brownish-blondish hair and a weathered face. There was a walking-stick propped up against his arm-rest. His companion had dark hair that reached her shoulders, and pale skin liberally befreckled. Her left hand rested on a backpack. The woman wore calf-length black boots, which Jess immediately coveted. The man wore a woolly cardigan, which she immediately didn’t.

 

“The blue ones.” The woman’s voice was Welsh. “Where do you stand on those, then?”

 

The man cocked his head judiciously. “Bridge too far for me, I think. They just don’t look natural, do they?”

 

“Yes. Because cocoa beans come in all the other colours.”

 

“Now you’re being sarcastic.”

 

“No flies on you, are there?”

 

“It’s the whole ‘blue’ thing, though, isn’t it? Blue drinks. Blue food. Blue rabbits. There are just some colours we’re programmed to mistrust.”

 

“I heard that the blues used to be the ones that made kids hyperactive.”

 

“You still get some mothers who come into medical practices thinking that. Old wives’ tale.”

 

“Really? That’s a reli...”

 

Her companion nudged her in the ribs. “They’re here.”

 

Two men were approaching the bench. Jess did not think it fair to label people as “weaselly”. If she had been so disposed, this was the word that would have sprung to mind. One of them kept looking around himself, sifting his surroundings in a fashion that struck Jess as rather paranoid. His eyes locked for a moment with hers. Jess flushed, and bent her head again over _The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic_ _._ The travails of Becky Bloomwood absorbed her for several minutes (even as, on the fringes of her awareness, four voices sharpened in disputation) until she made a discovery that would only be reaffirmed in the years to come.

 

No matter how many films you see, gunfire is always louder than you expect.

 

 The crack of the first shot made Jess drop her book. At the second, she felt heat sear across her cheek. She looked up to see the man who did not like blue Smarties lash out with the stick at one of the newcomers. He howled and fell to the grass, clutching his leg.

 

The other late arrival was wrestling with the dark-haired woman. They were vying for control of the gun in his hand. As Jess watched, the Welshwoman brought her knee up into his groin, and wrenched the firearm from his weakening grasp. He staggered backwards; darted a glance at his fallen colleague; then turned on his heel, and lurched into a stumbling run.

 

“Broke my knee.” The one on the grass was moaning. “Broke my fucking knee, you little bastard...”

 

“Did you?” enquired the Welshwoman, conversationally. She was searching through her backpack now, with speed but no especial suggestion of hurry. “I ask because people often say that loosely.”

 

“Yes, they do.” The short man looked over at Jess, and frowned. “And yes, I did.”

 

“Nice. Did they teach you that in your other job?”

 

“No. Tuesday mornings are singlestick practice. It’s either that or Jeremy Kyle. Mind if I leave the runaway to you?”

 

The Welshwoman held something metallic and shiny up to the light. “Be my guest,” she said, flashing a concerned look in Jess’s direction. “That poor girl needs some TLC.” She closed her hand around the glinting metal and loped off after the fugitive. The short man watched her progress for a moment; then turned around.

 

“Broke my actual knee, you little shit...”

 

“Yes.  And if you don’t lie still and keep quiet, I’ll make it a double. Nod, if we understand each other.”

 

The felled man looked at the calm face gazing down on him, and jerked his head.

 

“Good.”

 

Jess’s book had splayed itself out on the gravel beside her seat. She wondered whether the library would make her buy them a new one. A wetness she did not want to think about clung to her cheek. Her throat was dry. The man who had a stick but not a limp was walking towards her.

 

“Hello, miss. I’m sorry you had to see that. What’s your name?”

 

“Jess. Jess Parker.” Her voice sounded in her own ears like a stranger’s.

 

“Nice to meet you, Jess Parker. It looks like you were grazed by a bul... by what just happened. Would it be alright if I took a look at your cheek? I’m a doctor, you see.”

 

“I... I....” Jess swallowed. “Go ahead.”

 

“Thank you.” Firm fingers gripped her chin. “Ah, as I thought. It’s just a graze. You’ll need to get that seen to, though. And I’m afraid you may be going into shock.” He sighed, and scratched his chin. “This is a complicated situation, Jess. I’ll need to talk things over with my colleague. Do you mind coming with me to do that?”

 

“Will you shoot me if I don’t?”

 

“How would I shoot you with a stick?”

 

“It might be a shooting-stick.”

 

“Sounds a bit Victorian for me. Though I have my doubts about someone I know and his umbrella.” He held out his hand. “John Watson. I’m very nearly a boy scout. Honest.”

 

Jess stared at the hand for a moment; then grabbed it as she pulled herself to her feet.

 

“Best foot forward, then.” John ushered Jess across the grass, glancing at the man on the ground as he did so. “Don’t wait up.”

 

The man opened his mouth, took a look at Dr. Watson’s polite expression, and closed it.

 

“Um... aren’t you worried about what he might do?” asked Jess, as soon as she adjudged herself and John to be out of earshot.

 

“A bit.” John was swinging the Welshwoman’s backpack, which he had scooped up in transit, in the hand that did not hold the stick. “But as you’ll have gathered, we don’t have many bodies on the ground here. Pun intended.  He isn’t going anywhere, and he doesn’t have a gun or ‘phone. I checked.”

 

“Oh.” Jess struggled to keep up. The doctor still gave no sign that he needed his walking-stick.

 

 “How are you feeling?” John threw back over his shoulder, as he rounded a hedge. “Shock’s a tricky thing. You might experience a sense of detachment from reality.” He looked where he was going again, and dropped the backpack. “In fact... I might be having a touch of that as well.”

 

“Hello, John,” said the Welshwoman cheerfully. “Hello, Miss... er...”

 

“Jess.” Jess’s eyes, like John’s, were trained on a point several feet beyond where the Welshwoman was standing.  “Jess Parker.”

 

“Hello, Jess Parker. How’s Jumping Jack Flash back there?”

 

“Still grounded.” John’s eyes had not moved. “Um... what _is_ that, exactly?”

 

The Welshwoman glanced at the glowing, man-sized purple bubble that bulged behind her. “Ah. That. Just a containment device. The bloke I was chasing is trapped inside.”

 

“Containment device,” John said faintly. “Right.”

 

“Experimental prototype. Ministry of Defence. Very hush-hush.”

 

John sighed.“Is that really what it is?”

 

“No.” The Welshwoman’s smile revealed a prominent gap between her two front teeth. “It isn’t.”

 

“Typical. Absolutely bloody typical. How do I let myself get talked into stuff like this?”

 

“John...”

 

“I should make a rule. Nothing That Glows. Things that glow never end well.  Glowing lighthouses. Glowing ruins. Glowing dogs. It’s always the same.”

 

“John, why did you bring Jess here?”

 

John’s mouth snapped shut. “Safety. Something’s gone pear-shaped. I’m pretty sure that those two came alone, but we can’t run the risk of others arriving to mop up eyewitnesses.”

 

Jess blanched.

 

“Hmm.” The Welshwoman pursed her lips. “This is all a bit irregular.”

 

“Really?”  John was still inspecting the purple bubble. “Can’t say I’d noticed.”

 

“You’re being sarcastic.”

 

“No flies on you, are there?”

 

The Welshwoman sighed. “Alright, then.  What you’ve seen here, Jess, is a sting operation. One that’s gone, like John said, more than a little pear-shaped. The people we’re chasing... well, they’re not at all nice; let’s put it like that. You’ll be a lot safer if you come with us. We’re both really sorry to have made you a part of this.”

 

John looked sympathetic. Jess bit her lip, and nodded.

 

“Good girl. Now, I’m afraid it’s field interrogation time. You might want to avert your eyes.” She turned back to the purple bubble. “How tall would you say he was, John? Five seven?”

 

“Closer to five eight, I thought. He couldn’t hear what we were saying, could he?”

 

“No. This version blocks sound waves. Stops them screaming.”

 

“Good.”

 

The Welshwoman kicked something on the ground at the base of the bubble, which disappeared. The man thus revealed staggered, said “Wha...”, and fell over backwards as the Welshwoman’s fist connected with his chin. She stepped forward, resting her foot lightly against his throat.

 

“Hello, sunshine. How are you feeling?”

 

The man gulped. “In pain.” His eyes scrolled up the boot to the tightly-trousered leg that it supported. “And a little bit turned on. But mostly in pain.”

 

“Honesty,” said John. “Always good.”

 

“That’s all you’re getting from me, though.” The man’s eyes flickered from the Welshwoman to John. “Your Mr. Falcone can go screw himself. I’ll die before I talk.”

 

“Well, that saves time,” the Welshwoman smiled brightly down at him, “seeing as you’re already dead.”

 

The man narrowed his eyes. “What?”

 

“The bubble is a prototype. Like a lot of prototypes, it has its glitches. The containment is fantastic, but anything stuck inside the bubble for more than a couple of seconds sucks up a dose of some really rather unpleasant radiation. Hair on your pillow is the first sign. After that, it doesn’t take long for the cancers to kick in. Seriously: if you were ever thinking about taking up extreme sports, now’s the time.”

 

“You murderous cow....”

 

“Not so fast. There _is_ a countermeasure.” The Welshwoman opened her left hand, in which a small, red oblate spheroid nestled. “This pill purges all the radiation in an instant. But I suppose that someone who would rather die than talk won’t be wanting it, will he, John?”

 

“Clearly not,” said John. “Man of principle. Have to respect that.”

 

The man on the ground moistened his dry lips. “What do you want to know?”

 

“Everything. Why has your employer decided not to let Mr. Falcone buy the package?”

 

The conversation that ensued was, to Jess’s ears, cryptic and elliptical. After a few exchanges, the Welshwoman nodded; said: “Thank you”; and popped the red pill into her own mouth. The man’s attempt to surge up and attack her (“YOU’VE BLOODY KILLED ME, YOU CRAZY BITCH.”) was thwarted when John darted in and held him down. John frowned as he eyed his colleague.

 

“ _Have_ you killed him?”

 

“Of course not.” The Welshwoman finished chewing, and looked pained. “The bubble’s harmless. That’s the beauty of widgets like this, you see. Stick someone in it, and they’ll swallow any old techno-bollocks you dish up afterwards.”

 

“What about the pill?”

 

“It’s not a pill, you daft man. It’s a Smartie.”

 

John rolled his eyes. “Great. Could you do the honours, please? Lazarus here is getting frisky.”

 

The Welshwoman nodded, produced a small bottle and a handkerchief from her pockets, and knelt at the struggling captive’s head. Jess could not quite see what she did, but the man on the ground stopped threshing, and fell limp.

 

“Chloroform variant,” the Welshwoman had looked up and caught Jess’s expression. “We’re the good guys.”

 

“Good guys on the clock,” John said, cocking his head on one side. “Do you hear that siren?”

 

“Arse. Someone must have ’phoned in the gunshots. To the Batmobile it is, then.” The Welshwoman rose, and continued to hold Jess’s gaze. “Are you with us, Jess?”

 

In the years that followed, Jess often analysed her response to what the Welshwoman had said. It had never been in doubt that she would go with them. John Watson and his colleague had shown themselves to be scary people, whom Jess was not at all confident she could outrun. But she sometimes felt that she should have been able to come up with a better question.

 

“Um. Could you grab me a sandwich on the way? My lunch is back there at the bench.”

 

“We’ll swing by an M&S,” John reassured her. “I have vouchers.”

 

 

2\. Peregrinations.

 

 

“We really are very sorry about this, Jess.”

 

John Watson, Jess had already decided, was possibly the most polite kidnapper in human history. This was something like his fourth apology in twenty minutes. She wondered whether it was a strategy aimed at promoting the rapid onset of Stockholm Syndrome.

 

The two of them were sitting in John’s car, within walking distance, as promised, of a Chiswick branch of Marks and Spencer. Jess had not really been anticipating the Batmobile. But she had expected John and the Welshwoman to drive something expensively sinister – a stretch limo with tinted windows, perhaps, or a big black SUV. The back seat of a battered silver Nissan Micra had been, if she was honest, a bit of a letdown. The Welshwoman had disappeared inside the store about five minutes previously, after a brief argument with John about who should do the shopping (“Stay put, John. I’ve seen your Till Rage, and it isn’t pretty.”).

 

“I’m probably over-reacting,” John continued. “It’s very unlikely that they’d target you. But the last time I left a girl unattended when things kicked off... well, it didn’t end the way it should have done.”

 

Jess swallowed. “You do this sort of thing a lot, then?”

 

“More than I would once have believed possible.”

 

“And your friend? Miss....?”

 

“Er.... Yvonne.”

 

“Is that her real name?”

 

John smiled. “No.”

 

“Is she even really Welsh?”

 

John shuddered. “If you’d heard her hollering at the radio during the Six Nations, you wouldn’t doubt it. And, for God’s sake, don’t say anything like that when she’s in earshot. Hard men three times your size sing soprano now because they neglected that precaution.”

 

“I’ll do my best.”

 

“Did you know that _Pobol y Cwm_ is the longest-running television soap opera produced by the BBC? Beating _EastEnders_ by more than a decade?”

 

“No.”

 

“You do now.  Remember it well.”

 

Jess shifted restlessly in her seat. “You still haven’t told me what you two are doing. For all I know, you could be on the run from the CIA.”

 

“Ha. Did you hear that?” John addressed Not-Yvonne, who was returning with John’s Bag for Life in one hand.

 

“I did. I’m not on the run from the CIA, Jess.” The Welshwoman was rummaging through the bag. “Well, not primarily the CIA. Salmon, cucumber and watercress, John?”

 

“Please.”

 

“Great. BLT for me, and honey roast ham with Brue Valley cheddar for Jess. Sorted.”

 

“You seem very chipper.” John took receipt of his sandwiches. “I thought that you got jumpy around CCTV.”

 

“Not when I’m by myself. Then, I’m the Invisible Woman.”

 

“Wasn’t she a blonde?”

 

“You’re a man of surprises, John.”

 

“I had to read a lot of comics a while back.”

 

“Ah yes. The Geek Interpreter.  I liked that one.”

 

“Thank you. But the invisibility....?”

 

The Welshwoman looked up from ripping open her carton. “Within the UK, any clear image of me on CCTV is corrupted by fancy software. It’s part of my... arrangement with our mutual friend. “

 

“Mr. Falcone?” asked Jess tentatively.

 

“No – this is someone else. I do consultancy, Jess, for a minor government official.”

 

“What sort of consultancy?”

 

“Bits and bobs. In return for that, I’m a ghost.”

 

“Sounds cool,” said Jess.

 

“Less than you’d think.” The Welshwoman’s sunny demeanour had clouded. The three munched in silence for several minutes. Eventually John brushed the crumbs from his trousers and cleared his throat.

 

“Onwards?”

 

“Onwards.”

 

“Where are we going, exactly?”

 

“To our base,” the Welshwoman enunciated with a certain relish.

 

John navigated the Nissan through stretches of West London unfamiliar to Jess, until she recognized the clotted streets of Shepherd’s Bush. They swung past the Thames Water Tower, the sight of which seemed to animate the Welshwoman (“That hasn’t worked since our London office folded. Let’s just say that the liquid inside it wasn’t water.”), and on to the A40. John, who had been fiddling with the radio to catch _The Archers_ , abandoned the effort with disgust. “This really isn’t going well, you know.”

 

“I know,” said the Welshwoman. She was seated in the back with Jess, making frequent unsubtle attempts to spot a tail. “They shouldn’t have sussed us. It’s a pretty kettle of fish.” She frowned. “That’s an odd saying, isn’t it? I mean: who would be daft enough to keep fish in a kettle?” She saw John wince in the driver’s mirror. “Oh. Sore point?”

 

John’s knuckles whitened on the steering-wheel. “It took three days for the tea to stop tasting like mackerel.”

 

“Sorry.” The Welshwoman looked pensively at Acton ambling past outside the window. “Are you OK about this, John? Doing your thing without the man in the coat to watch your back?”

 

John’s eyes met hers in the mirror. “Are you?”

 

Jess felt the Welshwoman’s body tense beside her, then, deliberately, relax. “Ah.  He’s been a busy boy, I see. How long did it take him to find out who I was?”

 

 “Thirty-two minutes. You’ve been careful. That’s at least twenty-seven more than usual.” John fished a smartphone out of his pocket. “Which reminds me...”

 

As they waited at a set of traffic lights, John took photos of the Nissan’s inside roof, the Welshwoman’s left shoulder, and Jess. Jess was reasonably sure that only the last had been deliberate. John, she was coming to realize, did not seem to be very comfortable with technology. He then made several unavailing attempts to send the pictures somewhere, until the Welshwoman kindly but firmly took the ’phone out of his grasp and did it for him. Jess watched this procedure with trepidation.

 

“Um... were you sending those to Mr. Falcone?”

 

“No, Jess. They’re going somewhere else.” In the Welshwoman’s hands, the smartphone bleeped. “That was quick. He must be bored.” She continued to talk, while scanning the tiny screen. “Mr. Falcone’s back at base. We wanted to have something to tell him about you when we get there.”

 

Jess’s brow wrinkled. “But it was just a photo.”

 

“Yes,” said the Welshwoman brightly. Her eyes were still fixed on John’s smartphone. “That’s why we only know the obvious: that you went to an independent girl’s school on a scholarship; that you were quite sporty until a lacrosse injury when you were seventeen; and that you work in I. T., but don’t really like your job. Kids’ stuff, really.” She looked up. “Was that OK?”

 

John pursed his lips judiciously. “Fair-to-middling. But you need to read it out faster. Rattle it off.”

 

Jess found her voice. More or less. “How...”

 

“I’m Welsh, John. We don’t rattle. We lilt.”

 

“Did he say if he’s alright?”

 

“How...”

 

“No. But would he?”

 

“How did you...”

 

“Fair point.”

 

“How did you _know_ all that?”

 

“ _We_ didn’t.” The Welshwoman handed back the ‘phone. “John and I are just a short commute from normal, Jess. But we’ve walked with giants. Do we turn here, John?”

 

The Nissan slipped into the midst of the decaying office sites around Park Royal, where weeds effaced the memory of work. John pulled up outside what looked like an abandoned garage. The Welshwoman exhaled.   

 

“Here we are, Jess. Welcome to our base.”

 

“Oh.” Jess looked at the Welshwoman’s hopeful expression. She felt an odd impulse to be kind. “It’s... compact.”

 

The Welshwoman sagged. “There was a time when people were more impressed after I said that.”

 

“This is a bolthole, Jess,” John ushered his passengers out of the car, and locked it, “one of several across London. I don’t know how many. The man who built them never really meant them to be roomy. I paid a high price for access to this one.”

 

The Welshwoman raised an interrogative eyebrow. John sighed.

 

“The washing-up, if you must know. _And_ the bins. For a month.” He turned towards the garage, and raised his voice. “We’re back.”

 

“So I see.” A man stepped out from the doorway of the garage.  He was taller than John or the Welshwoman, with a long face, a strong chin, and short, brown hair. His pinstripe suit was incongruous against the backdrop of urban squalor.  Pale eyes looked Jess up and down. “And unless my intelligence is very seriously at fault, this young lady isn’t the package. Since urban guerrillas aren’t known for bringing along interns, I’m guessing that something has gone wrong. Oh well, we must observe the niceties, I suppose. Won’t you introduce us, John?”

 

“Of course.  Jess Parker – meet James Peregrine Lester. Or, if you prefer, ‘Mr. Falcone’.”

 

 

Interlude – The Empty House.

 

 

 _“High-ranking_ _career civil servant, now, from your cuffs, but you haven’t been to work for several months. Gardening leave suiting you, is it? Of course not. Splashes of mud on your left trouser leg say that you’re just back from the Welsh coast. You’re dubious about coming here, but the Welshman... no.... the Welsh_ woman – _the Welshwoman_ _with the young child – has already agreed to help. That makes you a little more sanguine, even though this set-up really isn’t your cup of tea. Speaking of which, would you like some? Thought so. John, stick the kettle on.”_

_James Lester cleared his throat. “I’m awestruck. Genuinely. Absolutely gobsmacked by your acumen. Do you do birthday parties? An act like that could get me out of buying my daughter a pony.”_

_“No point in that. She already has one. Apologies in advance for the mugs, by the way. The good china’s back at our old digs. I’m still a bit too dead to be seen in Baker Street.”_

_John Watson soon returned from the other room of the squat, a steaming mug in each hand. “Are you sure that this is a good idea? You’re really quite busy right now. The... network isn’t going to roll up and die by itself.”_

_“Our guest isn’t here for me, John. I should have thought that that was perfectly obvious. He’s here for you.”_

_“Yes. I am. I need your help with a project, Dr. Watson. It concerns... dinosaurs.”_

_John handed James a mug. “Dinosaurs?” He turned back to the armchair. “Do you know what this is about?”_

_“I haven’t the foggiest. What’s a dinosaur?”_

3\. Downsizing.

 

 

“Go on, then. Spit it out.”

 

Jess frowned. “Spit out what, exactly?”

 

James Lester sighed. “You are wondering, Jess Parker, why an obvious Whitehall mandarin such as myself is consorting with a brace of the world’s most bourgeois ninjas.”

 

He gestured expansively at the rest of the room. John was talking on his smartphone, pacing backwards and forwards as he did so. The Welshwoman was seated in a corner, rummaging industriously through her backpack.

 

“Maybe just a little,” Jess agreed.

 

Lester puffed out his cheeks. “Well, I’d like to say it’s because they’re the best at what they do. For all I know, that may even be true. But the real reason, I’m afraid, is that they’re free.”

 

“Cheap, James.” The Welshwoman had not looked up from her backpack. “Not ‘free’, ‘cheap’. Don’t forget you’re covering my train fares. And all the running costs for Silver Blaze.”

 

“Silver Blaze?” asked Jess.

 

“John’s car.”

 

“Oh.” Jess brought her hand up to her cheek. John had deftly plied scrubs and antiseptic once they were inside the garage, but the throbbing was still insistent.

 

“It wasn’t always like this.” Lester adjusted the knot of his tie. “Once, I had a whole facility at my beck and call. Proper soldiers.”

 

“I was a proper soldier,” John observed mildly, with his palm over the ’phone. “I was a very proper soldier.”

 

“Quite so. But the point I’m making is that things were organized. There are unusual problems in this world, Jess. There used to be many sets of people in place to sort them out. But then...”

 

“They fell.” The Welshwoman’s fingers were motionless, for a moment, on the backpack. “They got careless, or arrogant, or just unlucky. But they all fell.”

 

“... which is why I’m doing my best to make up the deficit with the tools I have to hand.”

 

“And why I’m working for a man,” the Welshwoman had returned to her rummaging, “who calls me a tool.”

 

“Things could be worse, Ms. Wales. At least you haven’t been called ‘Mr. Falcone’.”

 

“John was improvising.”

 

“And made me sound like the _capo di tutti capi._ He should write novels.”

 

“Is her name really ‘Ms. Wales'?” Jess asked in a lowered voice.

 

“Yes. She springs from a reclusive clan of Welsh assassins. Tyrants quail at their shuriken and bilingual road-signs.”

 

Jess looked sceptical.  Lester sighed.

 

“‘Ms. Wales’ is what I call her. She always lies about her name.”

 

The Welshwoman waved cheerily without lifting her head. Lester scowled.

 

“John, as he’s told you, was a soldier. Ms. Wales is, to the best of my knowledge, the world’s only consulting terrorist. All the tasteful bibelots on display here are hers.”

 

Jess looked again at the devices which every techie nerve in her body was urging her to touch. “Why are they all stamped with a capital ‘T’?”

 

The Welshwoman fixed her with a look of tranquil sincerity. “I used to run the paramilitary wing of Tesco’s.”

 

“You see what I have to put up with. Anyway, Jess, I suggest that you make yourself as comfortable as anyone can in the close proximity of Perivale. This little operation of mine is just about to enter its final phase. Once that’s completed, any possible threat to your person from the individuals you saw in the park or their associates will be lifted. Isn’t that right, Ms. Wales?”

 

“Ummm.....”

 

James Lester’s shoulders slumped. “What’s gone wrong now?”

 

The Welshwoman extricated something that looked a little, but not very much, like a PDA from the backpack. “Our chatty thug back at the park told me a bit about the warehouse’s internal defences. It’s not promising. The only thing I know that could take them out discreetly,” she tapped the gizmo, “would be this.”

 

“Why is that a problem?” asked Lester. “My understanding was that you had a technological background.”

 

“Yes, James. Technology was in the background. I was mostly in the foreground, chivvying things, questioning things, and, if it really couldn’t be helped, punching things in the throat or blowing them up.” The Welshwoman sighed. “I can operate most of the gear I brought, no problem. But this...this was the personal tool and side-arm of the single smartest woman I ever knew. To use it properly, you’d have to be at least as clever as she was. There’s about ten people on Earth who fit the bill. The good news is that John has one of them on speed-dial.”

 

“.... Norway?” John’s voice drifted over from the back of the room. “Why are you in Norway? What kind of twisted mind builds a criminal empire on fjords? Never mind. Are you sure your brother isn’t available?”

 

“The bad news is that I don’t think John’s having much luck talking him round.”

 

“...Yes – I know what he’s like. But still... hang on a minute. What’s that commotion?”

 

“I think,” the Welshwoman said carefully, “that we might be needing a back-up plan.”

 

“... are you _actually in the_ _middle of a fight_?”

 

“And we’ll probably be needing it quite sharpish.”

 

“.... OK, then. Look after yourself, you hear? And try not to kill anyone who doesn’t deserve it. ’Bye for now.”

 

“No luck?” The Welshwoman asked sympathetically, as the doctor ended the call and trudged over.

 

John shook his head.

 

“You did your best. Playing the sibling rivalry card was a shrewd move.”

 

“It occasionally works.” John sat down. “Just too implausible this time, I’m afraid. I can’t see his nibs dropping his routine of high tea and regime change for this. ”

 

“So, we’re back to Square One?”

 

“It looks that way.”

 

“Properly,” Lester said, in meditative tones. “The device takes a genius to use it properly. What does it take to use it _adequately_?”

 

“Not such a big ask. Most of the functions only need someone who’s intelligent and good with tech.”

 

“Like someone with a background in I. T.?”

 

“Exactly. Oh.” The Welshwoman’s eyes widened. “Tell me that I’m wrong about what you’re suggesting.”

 

“Desperate times, Ms. Wales...”

 

When Jess was a little girl, there had been a green across the road from where she lived. The green had been desultorily cordoned off by means of a narrow, encircling metal tube, supported on concrete struts about four feet off the ground.  All the local kids, Jess included, had enjoyed flipping themselves over the tube so that their chests ended up beneath it, their trainers smacking the ground with a satisfying thump. But the moment that counted came before that. It was when you had committed enough of your body-weight across the tube for the flip to be coming, inevitable but unhurried. The silent space, between decision and consequence.

 

Outside the space, James Lester, John Watson and Not-Ms.-Wales-Either were arguing:

 

 _“Have you lost your sodding mind? John and I managed to get her shot_ before _we met her. Even by my standards, that’s a record.”_

_“She’s right, James. We can’t guarantee her safety. I don’t know how much blood there is on your hands, but I really don’t want to add to what’s on mine.”_

_“She’s a civilian techie. You can’t be serious...”_

_“You are both aware of the stakes for which we are playing. I think that the choice should be hers. Everyone starts somewhere. Were_ you _always the woman you are now, Ms. Wales?”_

Jess thought about John’s Bag for Life, and the sandwich crumb that had been sitting, unnoticed, at the edge of the Welshwoman’s mouth since the M&S. She thought about the expression on James Lester’s face as he fiddled with his tie, and talked about the people who had saved the world.

 

In 2002, a girl’s feet landed with a thump on London tarmac. In 2015, a woman sat at her terminal and corralled time-lost monsters. In 2012, Jess Parker stood in an abandoned garage, with the letters “ER” formed on the wall by bullet-holes (psychotic fan of hospital dramas? Really hesitant gun-nut?), and took a breath.

 

 

4\. Assault on the Vault.

 

 

“This,” said John, “is a terrible idea. I have executed terrible ideas. I have nearly been executed _because_ of a terrible idea....”

 

“You were?” The Welshwoman squinted through binoculars. Silver Blaze was parked in a lay-by. Jess had lost track once again of where they had driven, but the landscape around them was suburban. John resumed:

 

“Yes. In Sumatra. Long story. But the point I’m making is: I know a terrible idea when I see one. And this, this right here, is a terrible idea.”

 

“The plan is sound,” said Lester.

 

“It really isn’t.”

 

“Your police contact was quite clear that your assailants haven’t had the chance to contact their associates. If we’re lucky, it will be another couple of hours before the others grow suspicious. And our intelligence says that the warehouse itself has at most one guard on site at any time. They rely on the building’s defences for security. Assuming that’s correct...”

 

“Big assumption.”

 

“... we shouldn’t have much trouble avoiding or disabling any guards, gathering evidence against these blighters, and securing the package. Surgical strike.”

 

“Have you ever been in an actual surgery?”

 

“We’re going ahead. Situation report, Ms. Wales?”

 

The Welshwoman handed over her binoculars. “They weren’t lying about the exterior defences, at least. Take a look through these.”

 

Lester did so, and frowned.  “Nothing there.”

 

“Try moving your field of vision to one side, and then back to where it was, very slowly.”

 

“Oh. I see. How on Earth did they do that?”

 

“Trust me,” the Welshwoman frowned. “Earth hasn’t got much to do with it. The entire warehouse is covered by a Class Five perception filter. If you know the building’s there, you can see it. If not, your eyes tend to slide straight past it. That would explain why we’re here in the sticks, and why they’re chary of moving too many personnel in or out. The illusion’s useful, but it’s fragile. If you go on poking and prodding, people start to notice.”

 

“Clever.”

 

“Yes. And worrying. I don’t think that these people are just opportunists. They might have struck lucky when they found the package. But scavenging a perception filter, too? I’m seeing a pattern.”

 

“Are the defences still vulnerable to our Swiss army knife?”

 

“Jess?”

 

Jess craned over the device. “I think so. Even from here, I can read off the specs of the defences. Once we get closer, I should be able to disable them.”

 

“Are you sure?” Lester asked.

 

“Absolutely,” Jess said brightly. She thrust the memory of the four burglar alarms she had set off while practising on the back seat of Silver Blaze _en route_ firmly to the back of her mind.

 

“Very well, then. Weapons check?”

 

“Done,” said the Welshwoman.

 

“Do I get a gun?” asked Jess.

 

“Absolutely not,” John said firmly.

 

“Comms?”

 

“Done.”

 

Lester opened the door. “Well, then. Thunderbirds are, as it were, go.”

 

A few minutes of cautious advance and (in Jess’s case) frenzied tapping ensued. At last, she looked up in relief.

 

“I’ve neutered all the perimeter sensors. And looped the CCTV.”

 

“Good work, Jess.” The Welshwoman smiled. “I could have done the CCTV, but not the rest. “

 

“All from outside the facility. Amazing.”

 

“What can I say?” The Welshwoman looked away. “My friend was an astonishing woman.”

 

“Is there anything this device can’t do?”

 

“Can’t open a deadlock seal. Can’t triplicate the flammability of port.” The Welshwoman blinked. “Can’t raise the dead. Be safe, Jess.”

 

“Door?” Lester’s suit looked even more incongruous in what Jess supposed she would have to start calling “the field”.

 

“There’s an app for that.” Jess manipulated the device. “Gotcha. All the electronic locks in the complex are disabled.”

 

“Good.” Lester squared his shoulders. “Two teams: myself and Ms. Wales; John and Jess. Search and secure as quickly as possible. Jess – do what John says if there’s any trouble. I’d rather you stayed in the car, but we might need you to disable security measures that aren’t on the main network. Everybody clear?”

 

A trio of nods.

 

“Good luck.”

 

***

 

“You’re not very comfortable with this, are you?”

 

“We should try to keep talking to a minimum, Jess.”

 

“Sorry. But you aren’t, are you?”

 

John sighed. “What do you mean?”

 

“Perception filters. Technological lock-picks. Force-field prisons. I couldn’t help noticing that your Welsh friend is a lot more at ease with all of that than you.”

 

“She is. You remember that she described the two of us as being ’a short commute from normal’?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well, I’m Stevenage. She’s more Peterborough. But it’s a strange world altogether, Jess. Most people never realize how strange. Either that, or they make themselves ignore it.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Do you remember the Miracle? Whole months went past, and no one died?”

 

“Well, yes. But that was all a media hysteria thing, wasn’t it? People were dying; it just wasn’t being reported. I heard that it was all cooked up by disgruntled civil servants.”

 

“So did I.” John scowled down the corridor. “I read it in the ’papers, so it must be true. All I can say, Jess, is that you weren’t living through those months with someone who becomes _completely unbearable_ when murder is airbrushed from the world. But I’m not just talking about big stuff like that. I could tell you stories of things I’ve seen. There was that whole business with the _Alicia_ , for example. Or Issie P.”

 

“The rapper? The one who had the breakdown?”

 

“Not exactly. The record company hushed it up. They actually found him gibbering in front of a matchbox that contained a worm from a species unknown to science. Never did find out what had happened.”

 

“Weird.”

 

“I know. Who uses a proper matchbox these days? But the point I’m making, Jess, is that it’s a funny world.”

 

John advanced with cautious despatch into a cavernous chamber. He exhaled sharply.

 

“And now it’s got a whole lot funnier...”

 

***

 

Lester glared at the Welshwoman, who had just nudged him sharply in the ribs.

 

“You’re still in a mood, aren’t you?” Lester peered back down the corridor. “I can tell.”

 

“I don’t do ‘subtle’. I’m sure that our mutual friend told you that in his briefing.”

 

“He did. Some other matters were omitted. He didn’t mention, for example, that your attitude to gun safety would have made John Rambo call in the HSE. But I was in a hurry, and we didn’t have time to go through everything.”

 

“John was right. This is a hare-brained scheme.”

 

“I’m sure that the two of you have done things much more ill-advised than this.”

 

“I know I have. I can’t speak for John. That’s not what worries me.”

 

“Then what is?”

 

The Welshwoman bit her lip. “I have a friend. A boss – sort of. Things are less structured now than they used to be. But long before he was a boss, he was a hustler, and one of the things he taught me was how to spot a mark. It’s not really about gullibility or foolishness. It’s about need. You’re a smart man, James, but you need what we’re chasing so badly it’s like a beacon. And that makes you vulnerable.”

 

“You’re still here, though.”

 

The Welshwoman halted beside a door. “I said I’d help. And....”

 

John’s voice sounded over their comms. “Can you hear me?”

 

The Welshwoman touched her ear. “We can. What have you found?”

 

“Ummm.... I think I’d have to go with ‘Ali Baba’s cave’. It’s very big. It’s very crammed. And there’s an awful lot of stuff that shouldn’t be here.”

 

“Such as?”

 

John ran his hand up and down a bulky canister that stood just inside the doorway of the chamber. Jess could see that it bore what looked like a depiction of a red goat’s leg and hoof on its side. “There’s material I recognize from Baskerville. I can spot several crates with UNIT markings. And there’s quite a few that are carrying a ‘T’.”

 

“Canary Wharf,” the Welshwoman whispered. “Maybe even the Hub, after the explosion. Jesus Christ.”

 

“You were right. There’s no way these people are simple opportunists.”

 

Lester cleared his throat. “Is there any sign of the package?”

 

“Not from the door, but it’s a huge room. We’ll have a scout around inside, and report back.”

 

“Do that. If you don’t have any luck quickly, we’ll pull out.” Lester sighed. “I must grudgingly concede that we may have bitten off more here than we can chew.”

 

“How are things at your end?” asked John.

 

“Your colleague has found what looks like the office. We’ll rifle it for anything interesting while you’re searching your Cave.”

 

“Understood. Over and out.”

 

The office was an airy room with several windows, dominated by a ponderous oak desk. A drinks cabinet stood against one wall, facing a large wardrobe against the opposite one. Lester and the Welshwoman headed across the carpet.

 

This was when they heard the click. 

 

 

Interlude – The Empty Cradle.

 

 

_On the eighth day, God discovered that He had over-budgeted on mud. He saw the surplus, that it was good, and He called it: “Wales”._

_Good Welsh mud caked Lester’s trousers. Through the window he could hear the sea grumbling in that passive-aggressive way that Nature does when you aren’t keeping an active eye on her. He leaned forward in his chair, taking care not to look to his right._

_“Your house is nice.”_

_“Thank you. I used to have one further up the coast, but it exploded.”_

_“Explosions. You have my sympathies. I bet that the insurers kicked up a fuss.”_

_“Why are you here, James Lester?”_

_“Hasn’t our mutual friend already told you?”_

_At least one other person was in the house. Lester could track the deft but heavy tread by the creaks above. There was also, of course, the evidence at his right elbow, which he was still scrupulously failing to notice._

_“I don’t know what he said to you about my... consultancy. I’ve done a lot for him to keep me and mine invisible. But I’m not his creature. I retain the right of veto on what I do. Did he mention that?”_

_“He mentioned a lot of things,” said Lester, recalling some of them to mind (“Don’t let the_ Under Milk Wood _ambience guile you: she won’t be more than three feet from a weapon. You should also be aware, James, that the woman you are meeting has had some unfortunate experiences involving representatives of Her Majesty’s Government and children. She will undoubtedly set you some kind of test. It won’t be hard to spot; she isn’t subtle. But if you fail.... well... she lives on the coast, and the sea’s not scheduled to yield up its dead before Judgment Day.”)._

_“So, then. Why should I help you?” The big eyes looked shuttered and hostile._

_(“But I’m still quite confident about your chances, James. She suffers from much the same affliction as yourself.”)_

_Lester took a breath. “I’m reaching into my pocket. Is that acceptable?”_

_“Go ahead.”_

_Lester fished out a sheaf of photos. He began to lay them out on the coffee table. “This one,” he pointed, “shows the aftermath of a velociraptor attack. This one here was down to things from the future. They don’t have names. But, as you can see from the wounds on the bodies, they do have claws. The people in this one fell foul of a Smilodon. Huge thing: looks a bit like the tiger in those commercials for Frosties_. _Not exactly sparkling conversationalists. But when it comes to killing and maiming, they’re grrrrrrrrrreat.”_

_Her head was bowed over the images. “What’s your point?”_

_“My point is that if you don’t help me take back what I’ve lost, the world will be seeing a lot more cradles as empty as this one.” He reached out to his right and gave the cradle a nudge._

_The person moving about upstairs had stopped. Lester thought he heard a contented gurgle._

_“You’re a bastard,” she said._

_“Yes. A bastard trying to save the world on a budget. I haven’t been told much about your past, but I seriously doubt I’m the first one of those you’ve met. Are you in?”_

_She nodded slowly. “I’m in.”_

_“Thank you, Ms....?_

_“Pallister. Yvonne Pallister.”_

_“That’s clearly a lie. But I’m sure I’ll think of something else to call you.”_

 

 

5\. The Lion in Winter.

 

 

“James? Can you hear me? James?”

 

Ms. Wales was hissing at him with unnecessary venom. Of course he could hear her. It wasn’t as though she had any trouble projecting. That was probably a Welsh thing, like.... like whatshisname. The one in the Goons, who did _Songs of Praise._ Bentine? No – the other one. Not short of a pair of lungs, whoever he was. Lester tried to stand up. The endeavour proved obscurely hard.

 

He looked down, and saw the dart protruding from his side. Ms. Wales wasn’t the only one toting unnecessary venom. Lester sighed.

 

“This,” he told the ceiling, “is why heroism is best left to the non-suit-wearing classes.”

 

And then he collapsed back on the floor.

 

John Watson in his ear: “What’s happening?”

 

Ms. Wales: “There was some kind of bloody crossbow trap in the room. Entirely mechanical – that’s why Jess’s gizmo didn’t pick it up. We tripped it before we saw it. James put himself between the bolt and me. You stupid, stupid bastard, James. You’re paying me to take the bullets.”

 

He found his voice again. “As we’ve established, Ms. Wales, I ‘m not really paying you very much. Oh my word...”

 

“James?”

 

“It’s like I’m burning...”

 

“How does he look?” John again. “Describe the visible symptoms. Now.”

 

“Loss of muscle control, disorientation. There’s a net of dark red lines starting across his skin.”

 

“This happened almost as soon as the dart hit?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Jesus Christ. They really do have everything here. What you’re seeing is called the Lion’s Mane. It’s a synthetic toxin, derived from the venoms of about three different species of jellyfish. From your description, James is in Stage One.”

 

“How many stages are there?”

 

“Not enough for me to get there in time. What do we have?”

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“In the room. What do we have?”

 

“Umm....  I see a desk, a wardrobe, a drinks cabinet...”

 

“A drinks cabinet? Thank God.”

 

“Time and a place for a swift one, John. This isn’t it.”

 

“Find the biggest bottle of spirits you can, and get him to neck it.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Seriously. I’ve encountered this toxin before. Strong drink’s the only thing that kills it.”

 

“John, if you’d seen what happened the last time I delivered first aid like Bernie the Bolt, you wouldn’t sound so confident...”

 

“Did anyone die?”

 

“No, but...”

 

“Well, then. You know my methods. Apply them.”

 

Some movement at the corners of Lester’s swimming vision, then the cold ring of a bottle neck against his lips.

 

“You heard the doctor, James. Get this down you.”

 

He swallowed, and almost gagged.

 

“Dear God, woman, this is neat vodka.”

 

“And there I was thinking you worked in Whitehall. You’re a senior civil servant, James. No one gets to be that without a liver the size of Kent. Swallow.”

 

“How does he look now?” asked John.

 

“Much better. The network of red lines is already fading.”

 

“Good. Make him drink as much as he can without throwing up or poisoning himself, but he should be OK. We’ll head over once we’ve finished here.”

 

“Understood.”

 

Lester had managed to prop his back against a wall. The Welshwoman handed him the bottle. “That was very brave, James. Stupid, but brave. What got into you? I thought that ‘stupid, but brave’ was what you hired me for.”

 

He closed his eyes. This was not a subject he had ever planned to broach. But James Lester was poisoned, and already more than a little drunk, and still couldn’t remember the name of that confounded Goon. The words were out before he could stop them.

 

“I let them down, Ms. Wales. I let my people down. Abby, Connor, Danny... They’re lost in time, and I can’t reach them. I was supposed to...” his nose wrinkled, “I was supposed to ’have their backs’. Vulgar American idiom. Makes it sound like you’re in a butcher’s. ‘I’ll have some of your best back bacon, please, and throw in a couple of sausages while you’re at it.’” He took another swig from the bottle. “But it’s true. They should have been able to rely on me to protect them. I didn’t. When I tried to get them back, I killed poor Sarah doing it. And now there’s nothing – nothing at all. I lost my team, and the world’s defenceless. Because that’s the thing, you see? The animals don’t come in two-by-two unless you have an ARC where you can keep them.”

 

“You’ll get it back. You’ll get them back. Thank you for saving me, James.”

 

“And thank you for saving me, Ms. Wales.”

 

“John would have done a better job.”

 

“You made an admirable proxy. Not as good as the doctor, but at least you’re here.”

 

She smiled. “That’s pretty much my job description. Now, back to business. What’s odd about this room?”

 

“The fact that it’s entirely devoid of interest?”

 

“Exactly. No computer, no files... What is there in this room that’s worth a booby-trap?”

 

“Wardrobe?”

 

“Wardrobe.”

 

“Um. Are you the good guys?” said a rather muffled voice. From the wardrobe.

 

The Welshwoman’s eyebrows lifted. “We do our best.”

 

“That’s... sort of reassuring, I suppose.”

 

The door to the wardrobe creaked open. A shortish woman in her mid thirties gingerly emerged. Shoulder-length, curly brown hair framed an oval face, with an ugly-looking gash at the temple. She rubbed her wrists as she advanced. “They tied me up. I’d only just worked myself free when I heard you moving.  Are you the police?”

 

“More what you might call specialists,” Lester said.

 

“Have they gone?” The woman bit her lip. “Has it started?”

 

Lester looked at her quizzically “Has what started?”

 

“The Process. That was why they needed me, you see. Because of what happened in Borneo.”

 

“Just a moment, love.” The Welshwoman touched her earpiece. “John? We have a hostage.”

 

The woman blanched. Ms. Wales smiled at her reassuringly. “Sorry. Poor choice of words. We’ve _found_ a hostage. Do you think we should... Oh. Right. Good point.” She turned back to the curly-haired woman. “Do you mind if I take a look at your arms, Ms...?”

 

“Rann.” The woman held her arms out obediently.  “And it’s Dr. Rann, actually.”

 

The Welshwoman ran her eyes up and down the smooth skin of the other woman’s wrists and forearms before nodding. “You’re clean. No marks of injection. That’s a relief. My friend on the other end is a doctor as well, you see. He pointed out that your captors seem to have a bit of a thing for bio-warfare. Wouldn’t want to discover they’d injected you with something unpleasant. Although you’ll be relieved to hear that, whatever some directors think, chest-bursters are actually quite rare.”

 

Dr. Rann’s eyes were wide.

 

“You’re a bit out of practice at this reassuring lark, aren’t you?” said Lester.

 

The Welshwoman shot him a glare. “Now, Dr. Rann....”

 

“Call me ’Maureen’, please.”

 

“... Maureen, what were you saying about Borneo?”

 

“I’m a travel writer. Maybe you’ve read my stuff? _Three Months in the Jungle_? I was trekking when I found their other installation. Um. Is your friend in the suit alright?”

 

“Fighting fit,” said Lester, who prided himself that he was swaying only somewhat.

 

The Welshwoman sighed. “Let’s get you to a chair, shall we?” She carefully deposited her gun on the carpet, and wrapped her arms around Lester’s midriff until she could manhandle him to the seat behind the desk. “There. Good as...”

 

John in her ear again: “We have a problem.”

 

“What?”

 

“Six men have just walked into the store-room. They’re all armed. It looks as though they’re searching for intruders.”

 

“Any other exits?”

 

“None we found. We’re trapped.”

 

“Jesus Christ.” The Welshwoman sucked her teeth. “We’re in trouble.”

 

“Yes,” the curly-haired woman said cheerily. She scooped up the Welshwoman’s gun, and raised it to cover its owner and Lester. “I rather think you are.”

 

 

6\. The Most Dangerous Game.

 

 

“Nice piece. Not a make with which I’m familiar. I prefer rifles myself. But beggars can’t be choosers.”

 

“Give me back my gun,” the Welshwoman said, in a level, quiet voice, “and walk away.”

 

Rann smiled. “Do you honestly expect _that_ to work?”

 

“No. But remember later that I said it.”

 

“I’m going out on a limb,” said Lester, “and guessing that you aren’t, in fact, a travel writer.”

 

“Actually, I am. Everyone needs a hobby. But before I was a writer, I was a soldier. And I am a very, very good shot.”

 

Lester cocked his head to one side. “Good enough to shoot two bullets at once?”

 

Rann snorted. “You can barely stand. The Lion’s Mane takes it out of you, doesn’t it? And even if you could, that isn’t your m. o., James Lester. You wrangle monsters to do your fighting for you. That’s why you brought her.”

 

“I do believe she’s being defamatory, Ms. Wales.”

 

“‘Ms. Wales’?” Rann laughed aloud, as she looked at the Welshwoman. “He doesn’t even know who you are, does he?”

 

“That makes two of you, then.” The Welshwoman’s voice remained quiet and even. “You may know my name, sweetheart. But if you knew who I am, you’d have taken my offer.”

 

“Spare me. You people were a joke. A wheezing relic of Victoriana that no one could be arsed to put out of its misery. You were about as scary as the Proms. And that was while you were still approximately a someone. Wake up and smell the dog-shit, _cariad_. This is 2012. The Hub is history; the ARC is theology; and Baker Street is a track which didn’t have Bob Holness on solo sax. No more heroes anymore.”

 

“And you’re just itching to fill the gap.” The Welshwoman continued to hold her gaze. “So, what’s the deal, Mo? Whose bitch are you? Van Statten’s? No – word is he’s a busted flush. The Three Families’? No. This ridiculous honey-trap you set for us isn’t quite their style.”

 

“I like to think of this more as a big game hunt.”

 

“I’m sure you do. Not many big cats, where I come from. Tiger Bay’s a bit of a false lead. But it had to be _clever_ , didn’t it? You had to prove you were smarter than us. And that’s a failing from John’s world, not mine. You used to work for Jim Moriarty, didn’t you? Can’t have been easy, lately. I heard that Lucky Jim ate his gun on the roof of Bart’s. Didn’t you hear that, James?”

 

“I did. Best thing that’s happened to a London hospital since the royalties from _Peter Pan._ ”

 

 “And now whole cantons of his organization are falling apart. That must be killing you, Mo. Hard to fight a dead man, isn’t it?”

 

“Easier than you think. Because now I’ve done what your clowns never managed. I’ve caught the doctor.”

 

Lester folded his hands under his chin. “Confident of that, are you?”

 

“Do you play cards, James Lester? I do.”

 

“I bet you cheat.”

 

“My cards are my six boys, armed to the teeth. They’re picking up John Watson and Team Wales’ latest mayfly techie as we speak.”

 

“Really? My cards are a very brave girl, the most dangerous woman west of the Pennines, and John Watson.” Lester leaned backwards in his chair. “I like my hand more than yours.”

 

***

 

Jess’s mouth was parched, and her fingers were clammy, and she was seeing the gizmo in her hands with an unfamiliar clarity. She was noting that its surface was pitted and scarred, and scorched at one corner as though it had been through a fire. She was recalling that all the references the Welshwoman had made to her brilliant friend who had built it had been conspicuous for their use of the past tense. She was shaking.

 

“Jess?” John’s voice was quiet in her ear, as they huddled together behind a crate. The men with guns were still standing just inside the doorway to the chamber. “I need you to focus.”

 

“There are six of them...”

 

“Yes. And if you help me, I can take them. I need you to wave that magic wand and conjure me a distraction. A couple of seconds is all I need.”

 

“That’s impossible...”

 

“I used to believe in ‘impossible’, Jess. Then I met a man who could see everything about me in my BlackBerry. I can do this. And so can you.”

 

Jess set her lips. “Count of three?”

 

“Good girl.”

 

Jess counted down from three, and then set off the fire alarm beside the door. The men turned to look; a shot rang out; and John stood up from behind the crates.

 

“Hello, gents. I’m Captain John Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Now, be good little boys, and run away.”

 

The six men stared. Their eyes widened. Jess gaped as they dropped their guns, and fell over each other scrambling through the door.

 

“Umm..... What just happened there?”

 

“We don’t really have time for this, Jess.”

 

“You frightened them into running away just by telling them who you are?”

 

“Not exactly. Now, take a good, deep lungful of air, and don’t let it out until we’re through those doors. We should get to that office before someone dies.”

 

“Of course. James and your friend need us.”

 

“What? Oh. Yes. That as well.”

 

***

 

“What do you think, Ms. Wales?” Lester wiped his brow. “Have we heard enough?”

 

“We have, James. Time to wrap this up.”

 

Rann’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

 

“Do you mind if I take my jacket off?” the Welshwoman asked.

 

The other woman raised the gun. “The jacket stays.”

 

“I was just being polite, I’m afraid. The jacket’s coming off whatever you want. Because the South of England charges a fortune for dry-cleaning...”

 

Rann squeezed the trigger. She looked puzzled.

 

“... and you’re holding a gun with an isomorphic grip.” The Welshwoman slipped her jacket off her shoulders. “Hope you didn’t spend too many hours in that wardrobe, waiting for us to show. Your ‘fake hostage’ routine was _semi_ -O.K.. Not very likely that you’d work yourself free just before we arrived, but beating yourself up a bit was a nice touch. The real problem was the arms. That was the reason I was checking your wrists. As the good doctor pointed out on our comms, it’s hard to wriggle out of restraints without getting rope-burns. After that, I just had to work out how to give you my gun. Because, well, I’m sure that James can put it better than me...”

 

“... people get much chattier, much quicker, when they think they’ve won.” Lester craned to look out of the window.

 

Rann’s eyes darted. “I still have my men.”

 

“Actually, you don’t.” Lester squinted against the setting sun. “I can see them from here, heading for the hills.”

 

“You’re bluffing.”

 

“Yes. This is my poker face. Grey and sweaty. It’s not an act I plan to take to Vegas. I think that one of them’s soiled himself, actually. You just can’t get the staff these days.”

 

“Your boys are running.” The Welshwoman dropped her jacket on the desk. “Can’t say I blame them, with John to face. There’s a saying, you know. ‘Demons run when a good man goes to war.’ But me... well... I’m not a man, and I forgot how to be good so long ago.” She rolled up a sleeve with practised fingers. “I like the demons to stay within arm’s reach.”

 

Rann was backing away. “It doesn’t have to go like this.”

 

“It really does.” The Welshwoman started on the other sleeve. “The smart play would have been to jump you quickly, once you’d spilled your tawdry secrets. But then... then you had to go and insult my dead friends. That’s when you convinced me to take my time.”

 

“I think I may be having another dizzy spell, Ms. Wales.”

 

“Don’t worry, James.” The Welshwoman smiled. “One-on-one is only fair. So, Mo. Shall we dance?”

 

 

Interlude – The Empty Man.

 

 

_“I like your office.” Lester watched moisture convene around the concrete pillars. He was fairly sure that he could hear rats squeaking. “Very open-plan.”_

_“How have you been, James?” The smile was mirthless. Lester didn’t think it had another setting._

_“Enjoying myself. Gardening leave is very tranquil.”_

_“I see. Then why have you started keeping a firearm under your pillow?”_

_“Big greenfly. Vicious.” Lester clapped his arms around his shoulders. “Now we’ve got the banter out of the way, can you help me with my problem?”_

_“You must understand, James, that I cannot be seen to intercede directly. Particularly in light of our long acquaintance.”_

_Lester thought back to the ugly, crowded house in Hampstead. The mother had been a pretty woman, with a perpetually harried expression that was only too explicable in retrospect. He thought of the hours spent notionally babysitting the podgy, solemn boy who already had a larger vocabulary than his own, and the scowling toddler who sat in a corner building, as far as the teenaged James Lester could tell, five Rubik’s Cubes into a bigger one._

_Lester wondered whether it would help to recall this. Almost certainly not. Sentiment did not convey advantage. And Lester had never seen convincing evidence that his interlocutor was, in fact, capable of forgetting anything._

_“You must also bear in mind that my influence, while substantial, is not unbounded. HMG sometimes sees fit to ignore my advice. The consequences are usually regrettable. The Miracle. The 456.” He inspected the tip of his umbrella critically. “But they never learn.”_

_“I’m heart-broken.”_

_“Yes. I rather think you are. You_ care, _James. Such a terrible affliction for any administrator.” He leaned on his umbrella. “I can put you in touch with some floating operatives. What you do with them thereafter is up to you. When your kingdom is restored, I shall expect a favour.”_

_“Thank you.”_

_“And James? Try not to be too... theatrical with what you’re planning. It wouldn’t do for innocent people to get hurt in your amateur dramatics.”_

_“Understood.”_

_“But a couple of M. P.s should be fine.”_

7\. The Package.

 

 

“I still don’t see how you did that.”

 

“There’s your problem, Jess.” John scoped out a corridor, and motioned her forward. “You see. But you do not observe.”

 

“You only fired one shot. And it’s not as though you hit any of them.”

 

“I hit what I was aiming at. I often do.”

 

“Wait a minute... Those canisters by the door.” Jess’s expression cleared. “You recognized them, didn’t you? The ones with a red goat’s leg on the side. And you wanted me to hold my breath.... Ah. What was in them?”

 

“Not a goat’s leg, Jess. The Devil’s Foot. A while back, I helped uncover work into a fear gas. Later on, we found out people had started playing with the formula. The revamped version is called the Devil’s Foot. I’m surprised that most of those boys managed to retain bladder control.”

 

“Weren’t you scared that they would just open fire when the gas hit?”

 

“A bit. That was why I made sure I was the target and not you. Now, we need to find the office...”

 

***

 

When Lester’s dizziness had passed, he opened his eyes again, and looked at the room.  The Welshwoman was sitting on the floor. She sported a split lip and a tumescent eye, but her expression was calm.

 

Maureen Rann was huddled on the carpet beside her. Lester cleared his throat.

 

“Is she...?”

 

“Dead? No. Won’t be waking up for a while, though.” The Welshwoman stretched her back, and winced. “Jimbo had a good eye for a lieutenant. She might have been thick as shit, but she was tough.”

 

“Not tough enough, it seems.”

 

“No. Not tough enough.”  The Welshwoman rested her arms on her legs.“The first man I killed came at me with a knife. He had no idea what he was doing, and I had less. That’s the thing about knives, you see. People think they’re easy, but they’re not. If you get the angle of entry wrong, you can feel all the textures inside that make us human, jolting up your arm.” She hugged her knees. “You asked me back at the bolthole whether I was always the woman I am now. “

 

“I did.”

 

“And I didn’t give you an answer. The truth is: I wasn’t. But I don’t think that the woman I was would like me. I think, if I’m honest, she’d be afraid of me.” The Welshwoman looked up. “You’ll take care of Jess when this is over?”

 

Lester looked at her levelly. “I will. Thank you again, Ms. Wales.”

 

“Gwen, James. My name is Gwen.”

 

***

 

“Did we make sure that bloody Rann woman wasn’t Helen Cutter?”

 

“Yes, James,” John, again, was taking point, “she definitely wasn’t Helen Cutter. Whoever that was. I think that your cocktail of venom and vodka might be getting to you a bit.”

 

“But are we _certain_ that she wasn’t Helen Cutter?”

 

“Didn’t you say this Cutter woman was dead?”

 

“Somewhere she is. It wouldn’t necessarily stop her from popping up now. That’s the problem with time-travelling megalomaniacs. You find that your crises keep precurring.”

 

“Well, Cutter or not, she’s tied up tight. There’s enough evidence in this complex to put her away for a good long time. We’ll ’phone in a tip once we’re done here.”

 

“How long will the fear gas keep her flunkies out of action?”

 

“About a day.”

 

“A _day_?”

 

“Yes. Like I said, it’s nasty stuff.”

 

“Good. That should give us time to move the package.”

 

“Are we sure there _is_ a package?” asked Jess.

 

John peered around a corner. His mouth went slack.

 

“Oh yes,” he said. “There’s definitely a package.”

 

***

 

It was the largest living thing that Jess had ever seen. The thought that this wall of scales and flesh was a single creature gave her vertigo. An eye blinked sleepily back as she looked at it.

 

“I’m thinking,” said John, “that it might not be viable to sneak her out in the boot. Were you expecting one of the big ones?”

 

“Not as big as this. I think they must have found her when she was smaller. At least they seem to have had automated feeding installed. And she looks peaceful.”

 

“She’s a stegosaurus,” said the Welshwoman. “They’re herbivores. She’s probably quite placid unless she’s spooked. And it’s likely they had her doped up to the eyeballs.”

 

“What do you think they were planning to do with her?” asked Jess.

 

“Sell to a collector. Harvest the DNA. Those are the pretty options.” The Welshwoman shivered. “Believe me, Jess. Humanity has an almost infinite capacity to fuck with marvels.”

 

John scratched his head. “You’re the Man with the Plan, James. What’s next?”

 

Lester adjusted his tie. “Here’s what we do...”

 

***

 

 It was three months before Jess saw James Lester again. She had been expecting contact of some sort or another. But lunch at his favourite restaurant was a pleasant surprise.

 

“Before you ask,” he said, as he consulted the wine list, “no dinosaurs were harmed in the making of that picture. Ms. Wales would have skinned me alive if that had happened.”

 

Jess looked at him quizzically as she reached for the bread. “Are you sure? A friend who works in Whitehall told me the stories that were going round.”

 

“I may have laid a hand to the rumour-mill. She didn’t actually rampage through the Members Bar. Getting her that close to the House of Commons was tricky enough. But you’d be amazed what can be achieved with two ninjas, a Class Five perception filter, and gigantic quantities of Ms. Wales’ patent amnesia pills.” He put down the list and started looking for a waiter. “She was actually grazing on a tree when we allowed her to be discovered. And now she’s safe and sound in the new ARC.”

 

“That was what you were planning all along? Faking an incident, just to get back your facility?”

 

“Oh yes. Snaring a dangerous criminal as well was just the icing on the cake. But I didn’t invite you here simply to preen.” Lester buttered some bread himself. “Would you like a job at my new ARC, Jess Parker?”

 

“A job?”

 

“Yes. Try to maintain a fiction that we’re meeting for the first time if you take it, though. As you can imagine, I’d like to keep our little adventure under wraps.”

 

“Don’t you already have your team?”

 

“John and Ms. Wales were temps, I’m afraid. Ms. Wales went back to her demanding infant; John went back to his. And your skill-set has a value all of its own.”

 

Jess blushed.

 

“You’ll also be pleased to hear I have proper soldiers again. You really should meet Captain Becker. I think you two would get on like a house on fire.”

 

“Becker? Like the tennis-player?” Jess frowned. “I never really liked him.”

 

“I think,” said Lester, as he caught the waiter’s eye, “that you may be pleasantly surprised.”

 

FINIS


End file.
